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Satomi’s migraines are rare, but when they find him, there isn’t much to do but close the curtains, drink a lot of water, and open his eyes as little as possible. He hates how helpless he feels but he can’t be bothered to pry his eyelids open to worry about it.
He’s two days into his first migraine since moving away when his phone won’t stop buzzing. He has no idea how long he lets it go on for, only that each new vibration makes his teeth ache and his skull rattle.
Satomi flails until his palm finds his phone. He squints out of one eye until the screen settles into something he can read.
Kyouji. Of course it is. Shit.
I’m here. Where are you?
Satomi?
If you aren’t coming let me know.
Satomi
I need to know you’re all right.
There’s at least fifty texts here, all along the same theme, over the past two hours. All because Satomi slept so long he forgot what day it is—and his plans to meet Kyouji for lunch today.
I’m fine, Satomi types out one slow and painful letter at a time. Stop panicking. I have a migraine and I overslept, but I’m going to miss lunch. Sorry.
He turns off his phone and tosses it away, ready to sleep for another twelve hours or for however long it takes for his brain to stop sparking like a severed power line. It seems Kyouji—it’s definitely not fate—has other plans.
Satomi’s buzzer hits his whole body like an electric shock. He groans as the sound reverberates through his brain and thanks every deity in existence that whoever it is doesn’t ring it again when he can’t answer right away.
Satomi drags his limbs off the futon and stumbles toward the door with his eyes still closed. He opens the door without looking because at least if it’s a serial killer his head won’t hurt anymore.
“Satomi-kun!” Kyouji’s voice is a boom and Satomi’s entire body flinches as much as he wishes it wouldn’t. If Kyouji knows exactly how much pain he’s in, he may never leave.
“Please.” Satomi tries to lean his forehead against the door but he must be more disoriented than he thought because instead his face seems to be resting against warm cotton. He feels the slow rhythm of Kyouji’s breaths. “I told you I have a migraine.”
“Sorry,” Kyouji whispers and somehow even that’s loud. “I brought groceries. You should eat.”
“Do you even know how to cook?” Satomi is certain he should be moving away, but his legs don’t seem to work anymore. Kyouji’s chest feels so good against him.
Kyouji laughs and it doesn’t hurt as much as Satomi expects. “I know enough.”
“Don’t burn my apartment down.” Satomi drags himself upright and back in the general direction of bed. He stays conscious just long enough to hear Kyouji lock the front door and start to make himself home in the kitchen.
“Here,” Kyouji’s wakes him some time later. “Miso soup.”
Satomi groans but he doesn’t fight when Kyouji’s arms wrap around his shoulders to guide him to sitting. It’s still dark in his bedroom, although a light elsewhere—probably his kitchen—grants enough for Kyouji to see by.
“What are you doing here?” Satomi asks, taking the bowl because there’s no way he’s going to let Kyouji feed him. He sips slowly, letting the warmth fill every corner of his body.
“You missed lunch and you need to eat.” Kyouji raises an eyebrow until Satomi lifts the bowl for another sip. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Aren’t you here on business?”
Kyouji waves a casual hand Satomi doubts his boss would agree with. “It can wait.”
Whether or not that’s true doesn’t seem like Satomi’s business. He finishes his soup and chases it with a glass of water, feeling marginally more human by the time he’s done. He blinks at Kyouji, taking in his usual unbothered and plain appearance, and asks, “How’d you find my apartment?”
“I know where you live.”
From anyone else—especially from any other yakuza—it would sound like a threat. From Kyouji, it’s only a bland statement. Of course he would know where Satomi lives. Why would Satomi expect anything less?
“Right.” Satomi makes a mental note to consider moving. He won’t, but he’ll think about it before deciding it’s too much effort for something that doesn’t matter. “As you can see, now I’m fine.”
Satomi goes very still as Kyouji leans forward, bridging the gap between them until their foreheads press together. It’s weird and Satomi isn’t sure he remembers how to breathe, but he manages to get out, “You know this is a horrible way to check if someone has a fever.”
“Is it?” Kyouji starts to sit up before he seems to think better of it. This time, it’s Kyouji’s lips brushing over Satomi’s forehead as he sweeps the hair out of his way with his hand. “I don’t think you have a fever.”
“I could’ve told you that.”
“You should get some more rest.”
Annoyance spikes through Satomi. “I would be resting right now if you weren’t here.”
“Hush.” Kyouji guides Satomi back onto the futon, running his fingers through his hair as he comes down to rest. Satomi’s eyes slip closed against his better judgment. He doesn’t remember the last time someone stroked his hair. Years, probably.
He hates how nice it feels that Kyouji is doing it now. He shouldn’t have answered the door. He shouldn’t have texted back, no matter how worried Kyouji might’ve seemed. He—
Kyouji grabs Satomi’s hand from where it rests above the blanket. Satomi is helpless to stop him as he lifts it. He opens his eyes in time to see Kyouji press his lips to the tender inside of Satomi’s wrist.
“Next time you have a migraine,” Kyouji says, brushing kisses up Satomi’s arm like he’s tracing his veins with his mouth, “you will let me know.”
“Next time you’ll be in Osaka,” Satomi mumbles, exhaustion settling over him. It might be a mistake to fall asleep with Kyouji still here in his apartment, but he can’t remember why. His head might be full of clouds.
“Doesn’t matter.” Kyouji returns Satomi’s hand to the blanket. “I want to know anyway.”
“Fine.” Satomi burrows his face into the pillow. He can’t imagine why he’d share it when Kyouji when it happens again, but he’s ready to agree if it means he can get back to sleep.
“I like watching out for you.” Kyouji’s words are as soft as his touch. “I wish you’d let me do it more often. I wish…”
Satomi doesn’t hear any more. He’s already asleep.
When Satomi wakes, Kyouji is gone. He’ll check to make sure but his apartment has that quiet and lonely feel of being empty and—more importantly—there’s a letter waiting on his bedside table underneath a full glass of water.
I wanted to stay until you wake up, but I have a request to deal with. Drink all of this. I’ll try to make it back to Tokyo as soon as I can.
Satomi sighs and chugs the whole glass. Not because Kyouji told him to, but because his tongue feels like sandpaper and his whole body feels wrung dry. His migraine has faded, leaving behind only the distinct feeling that his brain is still remembering how to function.
He’s glad for the note, if only to serve as a reminder that Kyouji’s visit hadn’t been a hallucination. He tells himself he doesn’t care when Kyouji plans to come back even as he reaches for his phone.